Divide and Conquest
by The Stuttering
Summary: After the endgame plans for the Courier go wrong and he is forced to compromise, he exiles himself. But he is later needed to combat a threat from the Divide.
1. Prologue

**This is my first entry into any sort of public writing. I am already bracing myself for the inevitable fan rage that may come over my interpretation of the ending of the main game, but I hope you can give an honest opinion of the merits of my work.**

Prologue

10 years….ten long years since the New California Republic, or NCR, fought and won the Second Battle of Hoover Dam against the wishes of the Courier. He had watched as NCR troops stood fast against the swarms of the Legion, their wall of brown dotted with the gray armor of Brotherhood of Steel Paladins and spiked with the black Brahmin leather of the Great Khans. The decimated forces of the Bull fled into their Legates camp, only for him and the Mojave Remnants to follow them and slay the infamous general. And as the coward known as General Oliver patted his back he felt his touch not as congratulations, but as heavy blows that pushed him into a state of depression and shame. He felt as if he had failed to protect the people of New Vegas, sending them into the same quagmire of overt ambition, jingoism and greed that he saw in the NCR. Despite this feeling, he was able to put up enough of a façade in order to publicly accept the accolades he received, and enough shade to protect him from the suspicious eyes of the NCR government. They knew that their victory was not his first option, and they were not fools. They saw that if he put his mind to it, he could have had them lose that battle, such was his prowess in all ways of diplomacy and combat. So he was not bothered as he left the Lucky 38 with a caravan of Securitrons hauling his belongings, nor was any eyebrow raised over the veritable armory of weaponry the robots carried. The Courier thought of leaving for Big Mountain, but he knew that somehow, some way, he would be tracked. He could not risk the NCR discovering the wonderland of miraculous technology that crater had within. The very thought of troopers marching into tribal camps, casting shadows over primitives with whatever technology the OSI managed to salvage was enough to give him shivers.

He decided, oddly enough, to make his home at the Securitron bunker; the place had plenty of room for the vast amounts of loot he had recovered from his travels. And the companions he had managed to hold onto would have plenty of living space. Raul, Cassidy, Veronica, ED-E and Rex made their home in the vast halls that once held what the Courier considered the saviors of the Mojave. Within 15 months, the Securitrons that survived the battle at the Dam had converted most of the vault into a home. There were still mounds of rubble there, but the impatience of the NCR to have him out the way forced the Courier to simply have the constructs move and seal off the remains. For almost nine years the Courier was unheard from, besides the Securitrons conducting what were little more than grocery runs to sustain him and his friends. A full nine years later he was surprised by a visitor. Ambassador Crocker, escorted by a squad of rangers, showed up at his front door and confirmed what the Courier had feared for a decade. Attacks, raids on isolated homesteads and the outlying territory of the sixth state of the NCR. People and animals torn to shreds, with no evidence to show the specific identity of the raiders…..until now. When the Courier known as Drake greeted-reluctantly- the politician and was later shown the recovered a body of those responsible, the memories came rushing back. Memories of darkness, of invisible fires, wide-eyed monsters, and torn walking corpses. Memories of the Divide.


	2. Chapter 1: The Offer

**I decided the writing style will be that of a third person limited omniscient narrator, centrally following the Courier, but later others when we….move on. Considering the endgame, here's a short version: Boon is back in 1****st**** recon, Lilly is back at Jacobstown being treated, Gannon is with the Followers and the rest reside with the Courier. Khans and BoS are treated as an NCR victory in the game; Followers are friends of the NCR. The only change in fact from the vanilla NCR victory is the described intention of the Courier. Oh, and Ulysses is alive and well; the Sorrows and Dead Horses still inhabit Zion, and the Think Tank is hard at work for the Courier. I guess I predicted fan rage 'cause of the fact that the Courier essentially FAILED the main quest, from his viewpoint. **

When Crocket arrived, Drake was surprised. He didn't expect this sudden encroachment on what was unofficially his territory, and was quite hostile. He met the intruders on the flat land that once served as a training ground for the former occupants, a short distance from the entrance to the bunker. "What in the hell do you guys want with me?" the Courier asked, with a hard edge to his voice that made his attitude towards this visit unmistakable. "I'm here to ask you for help with something, something only you can shed any light on." Crocket statedwith the neutral, inoffensive tone of an experienced diplomat. Folding his arms, with a smirk on his face, Drake responded "ONLY me? How come I'm the only one that can ever help you people with ANYTHING around here? I can just hear that tone in your voice, expecting-as always- that you can entice me with some of the shit ton of caps you guys have earned with your little conquest here, bet that trunk of yours is stuffed with money." He said pointing to the large case at their feet. As his voice rose, one of the rangers escorting the ambassador shifted their weapons, probably trying to intimidate the Courier. "Don't make me laugh, Ranger Rick, that big iron of yours won't get to leave its holster." He was right too. Crocker, in due haste, tried his hand at defusing the tension that was quickly worsening. "Look Drake, we aren't here for any sort of nonsense. I know helping us was not your first choice, but if you truly care for the wellbeing of the Mojave, you'll listen to what I have to say." After a brief moment of consideration, the Courier agreed.

Crocker was right, he knew, and decided to invite them into the weather station. "Sit down. You guys want a drink? I'll be having one. Been having a lot lately. They say alcohol abuse can come from depression. I wonder where that depression came from?" he said, raising his eyebrow to enforce the point. He grabbed a whiskey from a cabinet in the chamber. Drake wasn't stupid, and decided he couldn't just shut himself from the world forever. In anticipation of visitors (not NCR ones he assumed) he had the weather station remodeled into a sort of guest room. The metal floor was covered by a rich velvet carpet, made-perhaps unconsciously- to suggest the floors of his last residence. The walls weren't so well furnished, simply being cleaned and decorated with an Old World flag and a poster for the Sierra Madre. The Courier had scavenged some furniture from the ruins surrounding North Vegas and Westside, and had them restored with help Darla. She, with her surgical expertise, was handy with a needle and only needed some minor data downloads to suit her skills for the task. The chairs were the red cushioned type, offering the strange sensation of actual comfort for the rangers suited to frontier life. Besides the chairs and the refreshment cabinet though, the room was quite spartan, the various consoles having been ripped out and thrown into the rubble mounds. "Nice place you have here," Crocker commented "but I doubt this is the real extent of comforts you have." he said with a smile. "Actually," Drake countered, "I'm no senator. I don't need any lavish creature comforts, unless you count the guns. I certainly do." They all heard the door into the actual bunker open, out coming Raul, the old school ghoul. "Hey boss, you need help up here?" he offered, darting his eyes to the heavily armed rangers, then back to his friend. "I'm good Raul, thanks for the thought" the Courier said with a smile. The two regarded each other with much respect, and even though Raul was way beyond Drake in years, he still saw him as an equal. His smoothed-skinned friend had been through what was essentially a truncated version of Raul's trials and tribulations. "I was kind of hoping you would say that," Raul admitted "I never told you but I'm not much of a negotiator with anything other than a revolver." He went down the steps out of sight, and opened the door, but closed it without entering. The Courier heard, and appreciated the caution his (very, very, very) old friend displayed.

"So, what's this issue? Fiends returned? Van Graff's pissed about their punishment? Let me guess, you want me to tame New Reno for you?" Drake joked. "We need your help with a very serious matter, one that has caused the deaths of many innocent citizens; or rather, as innocent as one can be in the Wasteland." Crocker continued "I've been getting reports of settlers and citizens at the edge of the Mojave being slaughtered. I personally visited one of the attack sites and let me tell you, it is unholy, people and their livestock torn to pieces. Shredded! Like horde of deathclaws had charged in and ravaged the place. Odd thing is, it didn't look like deathclaws. No huge claw marks, no signs of 7 or 10 foot tall monsters having been there. Lots of little tracks though, like small people but…wrong. A human foot twisted into a monster's. We had no idea what they even looked like. But at the last raid we found a body. Looked like the prospector they tore apart managed to get one. We carted it from lab to lab but no one could ID it. So, what with your extensive travels being a courier and all, we decided to bring I to you." He gestured to a ranger, who got up and lugged the black and silver trunk to Drake. Carefully, he undid the lock and opened the container (with, Drake supposed, a little drama) to reveal its contents. It took a second for the Courier to recognize it due to whatever rot the sealed container was unable to prevent, but he saw it for what it was in just a second. "Holy shit…..holy shit this is a tunneler." Drake said with a look of apprehension. "This can't be real. This can't be happening…..Ulysses was right. They're finally here." Crocker spoke up "So you do recognize it. What did you say? A tunneler? Mind telling me what that is?" Drake spoke with a hushed voice, his mind suddenly flooded with the memories of the terror and suffering he went through under that cracked sky. "These things are unlike _anything_ you've ever seen. They kill deathclaws Crocker. I barely made it out of there. I figured when I killed a queen of those things that was it, they were gone. But they weren't. These attacks took place during the night?" he questioned. Trying to recall the details, Crocker spoke "Mostly yes, but more recent ones took place at dawn, or in the twilight. Not much daylight but some. What are they nocturnal or something?" Drake nodded "Yes, you could fire a flare at them and they'd go running. A flashbang could make them frenzy. But if they have some small resistance to light now, I don't know what could happen. Eventually they may come out during the day. You'd never be safe; they can kill just about anything, with enough numbers. And numbers is one thing they have. I told you they could kill deathclaws. Well, they do. They swarm over it, taking it apart. Honestly I don't have a solution right now. But I know someone that might. An old friend, and enemy, of mine. Ulysses." Slightly frustrated at apparently coming here for nothing, Crocker asked "Well where is this Ulysses? We need a solution Drake, every day we waste carting it place to place means more people are dying." Drake narrowed his eyes and regarded the diplomat with a cold stare "I'm telling you jack. You think I'm going to clue you in on where anything or anyone I value is? No. I've seen enough of what the NCR does to those. I will travel there, and seek him out for advice. But let me tell you this. If anybody tries to track me, I'll know. And when I know, so will they soon enough. A bullet to the brain is a pretty good sign you've been spotted. So is disintegration, melting, having your limbs blown or hacked apart, take your pick. I pack quite a variety of tools." After a long silence, Crocker stood up and after a moment the rangers did the same. "I see your sense of cooperation is at an all-time low, Mr. Caliban. But don't worry, I'll see to it you aren't followed. But we will know when you come back, and if you don't have results…well…we would be happy to return the hostility. We will see each other again, Courier and it's up to you whether it be yet another public thank-you or at your sentencing. So Drake Caliban or Courier, whatever you go by, I bid you goodbye. It's been good."

**Well, there we go. First full length chapter and we have ourselves a real premise. See you next time, where we'll be witnessing another meeting of the two Couriers, one that will (probably) be one where they DON'T look forward to killing each other. **


	3. Chapter 2: The Solution

**In this chapter, we're going to have another meeting between Ulysses and Drake. Hopefully the Couriers can reach a solution to the tunnelers before the whole Mojave becomes a hunting ground. Well, it already is, but a hunting ground ONLY for mutated human/reptilian abominations. **

It took some time for Drake to reach the entrance to the Divide canyons. The roads were full of traders looking to make a deal with new residents, and masses of trooper patrols. Drake figured these patrols were a bit of overcompensation for the hideous lack of security for wastelanders in the Hoover War. Now that marauding bands of skilled raiders weren't virtually roving free in the isolated areas of the Mojave, the only thing people needed protection from was themselves. Even then, with the patrols and added security only the brave or stupid attempted the broad daylight muggings of before. People still flinched when they saw the thugs that used to terrorize them, but quickly (and smugly) smiled when they realized the muggers couldn't touch them without being torn apart by volumes of rifle fire. It was also safe(ish) in the open wasteland, the Courier having wiped out many predator dens in his exploration. Still, it was a bit of a pain crossing the land as the Courier had always done. More people meant more settlements. More settlements meant less natural habitats, which pushed animals into tighter and tighter spaces. Drake was actually charged by bull bighorners despite not coming close to any herds. Apparently even the passive animals were becoming increasingly aggressive.

Eventually, he reached the canyon entrance he had so creatively named Canyon Entrance. He braced himself, perhaps expecting packs of tunnelers to be waiting right at the entrance. He was prepared though. He had armed himself thoroughly, being a believer in preparedness. He was dressed in the Courier Duster he had received from Ulysses, despite his abuse of it. After the Second Battle of Hoover Dam, the Courier had taken the jacket and sprayed a red X of paint over the Lucky 38 logo. To him, his cause was lost and it was an act of anger and shame. When gearing up for the trip, Drake had noticed the duster pinned to the wall above his bed, and remembered the cause. He never wanted to forget his failure, he decided it was something that needed to fuel him, to drive him on and never let something like that happen again. And so in this light of that decision, he put on the old jacket. He donned the faded dark jeans and banded shirt that it was paired with, along with the helmet he found being worn by the NCR soldier in the Divide. He recalled the sad state the body was in, slumped against a wall with a last drink in the dead man's grip. For weaponry, he stored his 12.7 millimeter rifle, a ranger sequoia, five throwing knives and Blood-Nap the bowie knife in his Pipboy's storage device. He also strapped a flare gun and a few flashbangs to his armor for quick access. All that, along with his usual assortment of healing items, chems, and about 10 MREs and water bottles. He was ready. Heading into the wastes alone, his companions made barely a noise about his solo journey. He had told them about his time in the Divide, and when he did he was met with an initial wave of frustration and vocal protests about his decision to head into such a dangerous place with a mere Eyebot for protection. He soothed their tempers with the assurance that if he had not entered alone, Ulysses would have killed them. He saw the masked man a few times on his journey, and noted the huge anti-material rifle he carried. Had he wanted to, he could have ended the Courier then and there. But his refusal for such cowardly acts was a godsend. They understood then, and also understood that Drake wanted no company now, when he was doing all he could not to attract much attention in the Divide. The last thing he wanted was to face a whole horde of the things.

As he navigated the nooks and crannies of the path to the Divide, he made sure to be as stealthy as he could be. He saw a few bodies of Marked Men, undoubtedly slain by his friend, making sure they a least wouldn't get through to the Mojave. He wondered how many of them there were. He had killed many of them on his way to Ulysses' Temple, and he didn't know how many of them the other Courier had taken down. Surely, one day there simply wouldn't…..be any more? He shook such thoughts of theories and maybes. He had to focus if he wanted to survive in a place as treacherous as the Divide. He finally arrived at the entrance to the actual canyons, lying under the brown, sandy sky. It was just as chaotic and torn as he remembered. He always thought of it as a rather odd coincidence that the main entrance happened to have a view of almost the entire place. But it wasn't the view that Drake was focused on. He gazed at the remains of the carnage in front of him. Over a dozen tunneler corpses lay strewn on the path to the missile bunker. And on the cliff that overlooked the Divide, stood a cross. The type that was used by the Legion. And on that cross, a man was bound. A man with a familiar duster, and straps around his ears to hold a mask.

He stepped out to the cross, and was horrified to see Ulysses on the cross. He was bound to the cross in the usual Legion way, so that any attempt to bring him down would result in a messy, painful death. "Ulysses, are...are you alive?" he ventured. A small groan came in return, then "Seems you found me, Courier. Didn't think you would, at least until I was gone. Probably wondering how I found the perch. The last-AH!" His speech was interrupted by a brief shout of pain. It appeared even the seemingly superhuman courier felt physical pain. He resumed his explanation. "Some of the last drops of the Bull's blood trickled down here, away from the Bear's thirst for them. Found me battling tunnelers, waited 'til I finished, then put me to sleep with the flat of a machete. Strung me up, waited for my sleep to end. Woke up, hearing them accuse me of betrayal. Coating Dry Wells in invisible fires, burning a brand of the Twisted Hairs into the Bull's flank. Then left." His stamina exhausted, his head slumped down. Drake looked on, then said to himself "I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry Ulysses. Do you want me to, you know, end it?" He couldn't bear to see his friend in such pain, the nigh legendary warrior hung up with his body broken. He now noticed more of Ulysses' condition. He had been cut. His legs and arms bore burned slashes. They had tortured him, cutting him then sealing the wounds with an iron. Over and over again. His braids had been cut, leaving only dreadlock stumps. His tattered jacket was defaced, and he could see the Legion's mark painted on the back, over the Old World symbol. Drake looked at his face as he spoke again "Would be a welcome relief. But I see it in your face. Have your own worries that need relieving. What is it? Least a dying man can do." Drake responded "Well, it seems you were right about the tunnelers. They're attacking people at the edge of the Mojave. They apparently have grown some resistance to sunlight, they've been attacking just before dawn and dusk. They're here. I came to you for help, advice. But I'm also glad to be here to help you now." Shaking his head, the hanging man responded "Told you. Didn't believe me? Or concerned about the NCR? Heard about the Dam, Legion was killed; the Bull had its horns cut. Brotherhood, Khans, Enclave, too much for Lanius. Bull's rampaging trod over too many."

" As for the monsters, look around you. Warheads, scattered in the canyons. They could be the answer. Bombs made them, bombs can kill them." Finally, he was finished. Drake stared at the fellow courier. "Thank you Ulysses. I'm sorry but….I need to go. I'll need help for those nukes, and I know who to ask. It's been good knowing you Ulysses. You taught me a lot. I hope I can pass your lessons to others." He said. Ulysses took one last look at the courier, his breath ragged through the breathing mask. "Lived my life, Courier. Did things I regret, many things. Hope you can pass my lessons though, through word or blood. Save the Mojave, in more ways than you looked to do so when you came. Let the nation grow, don't let the Bear keep its paw on its throat. Goodbye Drake." The Courier backed away, took out his revolver, and with a sound of thunder, ended the saga of Ulysses.

**Wow. Ulysses is dead. Who saw that coming? Raise your hand if you did. No hands? Oh wait, you in the back. Ok, just you. Yeah, look forward to that sort of thing. This is definitely showing signs of Anyone Can Die. Next time, after a funeral for a great warrior-poet, Drake will be talking to the NCR Senate for his…RADical plan. **


	4. Chapter 3: The Profiles

Chapter 4: The Profiles

**It's been a bit since the last story. I want to keep a rapid pace, a story every day to two days. Here, the Courier will be giving his plan to the newly formed NCR Senate. There is one for each state, except Shady Sands (Americans don't have a governor for DC now do they?). To be honest, this was a hard part. I don't like writing dialogue, and it's a pain in the ass with the quotation marks, but now I have gotten some advice from another writer by the name of atomicfox (You should see her stories, they're well written) on dialogue structure. And obviously, someone talking to a government body is going to talk A LOT. Especially in a republic, what with the bureaucracy. This chapter will mainly be characterization of a few important persons we will be seeing soon, as well as a set up for the next chapter. You could skip this if you want, as it primarily serves as lore-building in preparation of Drake's visit to the Senators. I have a few inside jokes and Meaningful Names here too. **

It was a somber journey back to the Mojave. The Courier's mind was swirling with thoughts following Ulysses' death, and it was detrimental to his progress. One had to focus and watch their footing in the canyons of the Divide, to avoid slipping into chasms. He was not quite devastated by the loss of his friend, as he had not seen him too often, and it was only for short periods of time in which he sought the advice of his fellow courier. Even so, it only added to the cerebral cloud his mind was enveloped in.

3 days after he had left, Drake returned to the scarred desert. He immediately headed to his base, where he wanted to prepare. He went to a room he had built for a situation he hoped would never come to pass, the War Room. He had sent his robots to comb the wastes in search of scavengers in the early years of his exile. He wanted to find something specific, maps. Maps of the Mojave, the Hub, Dayglow, Maxson, Los Angeles, and finally Shady Sands. He looked for friends he had made in the NCR, people he had helped. Hanlon, Lt. Monroe, Col. Hsu, and others. He prepared to wage war on the Republic, so wanted every advantage he could get and all the information he could acquire. Info on stockpiles, outposts, radio frequencies, even alliances and rivalries in the military and political systems of the NCR. He even jotted down the codes ED-E gave him for accessing the remainder of the nuclear stockpile at the Divide. He did what not even Caesar or he Enclave could do. He had a comprehensive plan, accounting (with the help of the scientists at Big Mt.) for all the scenarios and possible reactions for a war with the NCR. In essence he held, in his mind and this room, the death of the NCR. But before he could enact this plan, he came to his senses. His rage and indignation was overcome with sorrow and regret. Though he did not leave the negative state he was in, he made it into a non-lethal state; a condition of self contained sadness and hollowness. Now, with renewed purpose, he was determined not to let such murderous thoughts take him.

In the War Room, he drew up more plans, papers to plaster over the genocidal formulas he had pinned to the walls and filling the cabinets. He came up with a good, quick way to win over the newly appointed Senators of the NCR. There was Senator Soins of Dayglow. Originally from New Adytum, Jeremiah Soins was considered the Senate's token liberal by a majority of the Congress of the NCR (CNCR). This was to be expected by someone who grew in an atmosphere of cooperation and tolerance. Some left wing advocates of the NCR labeled him as the positive side of the NCR, the nation supporters saw as the people's government. He would easy to sway, being very concerned with the welfare of the people. Any measure to protect them would be approved by him.

Next was Senator Vegter. Charles Vegter grew up a military man, seeing armed force as a solution to most problems with people. He had called for a suspension of POW rights during the Hoover War. He had clashed with Soins on the subject at a senatorial debate, but his proposed bill was defeated by a small superiority of votes. He had a quite low opinion of Soins after the incident, and they often were at odds, especially on the subject of war. He might be easy to convince, as nuking the enemy might actually bring a smile to his reputed stony countenance.

The senator of Hub, Craig Bijin, was not concerned much with military or politics, except where it concerned his professed interest in merchant manners. His election campaign, centered on keeping up the thriving commerce of the Hub, was quite a sell. He had a small cadre of advisors to aid him in maneuvering the political channels of the Republic. Rumors in the political grapevine that Drake intercepted stated that he and his economic minister actually did each other's main duties behind the scenes, and that in public, Craig was just a figurehead. Funny thing was, if it was true, he seemed to enjoy this fact; he was better at home negotiating with merchant reps and analyzing market values than the thrust and parry of politics.

There was one that Drake was not too sure about, someone who almost seemed as much of an exile as he once was, Senator Daaya. Fahmi Daaya's family was not known well, as they left him at a doorstep with only a name on a slip of paper. Normally this was ignored, but his family was apparently caring or lucky, as he was laid at the doorstep of a Richard and Angela Crote. In respect to his parents, they decided not to rename him; this was his only bit of luck, as he grew up as a man who knew suffering. His main platform during elections was actually that of experience. In the Boneyard (a town that knew suffering quite well) experience in the harshness of wasteland life was valued, and his election was nigh unanimous. In office, he kept to himself, and only showed up when required. He was often seen not as the voice of reason, but reality. When the other Senators grew too idealistic, he was often the one who grounded them; he was infamous for punctuating his points by gesturing to a lifeless patch of desert land that was never cleansed of radiation, as it lay right in view of the Senatorial Meeting Room window. He would need to acquire more information, maybe show himself as a kindred spirit that knew of the harshness of reality.

Finally, the newly elected New Vegas Senator Ambicio. His real first name was Hugo, but was known by his nickname Tonto, for reasons only known to few. Drake once consulted Raul on the subject, but received only a laugh and the remark "he deserves the name boss, trust me". He was only technically elected, as he ran virtually unopposed, with rumors he was actually set up by the NCR as a puppet. Having a reputation of parroting South American leaders before the War, many opinions of him were of the educated (or long-lived ghouls) who knew what he was trying to do, and the uneducated majority disliked him for his stuffy and superior attitude. He was also known for using the untested frontier-like atmosphere of the Mojave to give himself a little more power than he should usually have, and his ministers were little more than his tools. He would be a pain in the ass, probably the biggest obstacle; his status as a puppet for the government likely meant his head was filled with slander about the Courier, meant to ward off any efforts by Drake to reintegrate into Mojave society.

All in all, it seemed that if he could get through Tonto, it wouldn't be too hard to rally the other leaders. Besides him, the other main obstacle would be getting someone to take his side, someone respected by the NCR, someone who belonged to a prestigious group (preferably he military, the NCR being what is was). Boone! The Courier hadn't heard much from Boone since his self-imposed exile, but he heard he had gained some popularity since publishing his memoirs of being a sniper, focusing on the controversial shooting of women and children at the Bitter Springs Massacre. He was hailed as a national hero, and there even rumors of a holovid being made to chronicle his time in the military. Drake almost ended his exile early one after he heard Craig was shot by a psychotic ex-Ranger while at a veterans meet. He reined himself in after learning it was non-fatal, and that the marksman would recover shortly. If he could meet Boone again and convince him to vouch for his intentions, it would be much easier persuading the Senators, especially Mr. Ambicio. The last he looked it up, Boone was at Camp Golf, giving lessons to Ranger hopefuls…..

**So there we go, the setup for the next chapter of Divide and Conquest. Oh, and I did KIND OF do this chapter to put off the inevitably dialogue heavy Senator Meeting Chapter. See you next time! **


	5. Chapter 4: The First Steps Part 1

**Hey, guess whose back? I'm going to be adding a few chapters to the story, don't know about finishing it. I had to take a few liberties with canon seeing as they aren't really covered in the Wiki. Sp forgive me if anything looks odd. **

Chapter 4: The First Steps Pt. 1: The Sullen Sniper.

A popular saying back before the war went "a man can be judged by the company he keeps". Drake Caliban, The Courier, had very much in the way of company. His collection of friends and cohorts were not very close to an actual military company in regards to numbers; they counted eight in total. But when together they were close to an army in sheer damage potential. Before the war they would have been seen similar to real life comic rouge's gallery. Mutated humans, elite soldiers, gunslingers, a prototype military robot and a dog. With its brain in a reinforced Plexiglas dome. In today's time of snake/coyote hybrids, chameleons mutated into ten foot tall nightmares and violent radioactive hurricanes though, they were small tatos. Drake had acquired this menagerie of murder machines in his travels across the Mojave, and he needed their help more than ever. The routes from New Vegas to the NCR were mostly clear thanks to trooper patrols and occasional incursions into predator dens and tribal camps by rangers, but Drake knew this journey would not stop in bear country. And that meant gathering as many of his friends and allies as he could. The first stop would be Camp McCarran to pick up Craig Boone.

As Drake walked up to the gates, he was eagerly saluted by the gate guard. "Oh! Uh, hello sir! Welcome to Camp McCarran! Can I help you sir?" he said. "Well for one, your hand is a bit too inclined there Private. It should be straight as a board, like this." Drake saluted with perfect form to demonstrate. "Personally, I don't give a shit, but if Lt. Boyd sees that you'll be running laps around a gecko den." "Secondly, I wanted to know if First Recon sniper Craig Boone is present at this base. I'd like to have a chat with him." He told the guard. The Private responded immediately. "Yes he is sir, he is with the rest of his unit over in the little tent city." Drake smiled and thanked the soldier. "By the way I'm not strictly in the NCR military, so the sir is not really necessary." The guard beamed at him "For you sir, it is." As he went through the gate, Drake felt a sort of warmth in him. Whenever he thought of the NCR, especially its military and politicians, he thought of people like Colonel Moore. Jingoistic, vicious golems of anger and contempt. It was easy to forget that for the rank and file soldiers and citizens that heard of his exploits he was seen as a heroic patriot of the Republic, humbly serving the will of the people. To other more cynical yet not in-the-know nationals, he was a third head of the bear, snapping at any and all that threatened the body. Either way, he was seen in a better light than the higher ups of the NCR, and others who knew his true feelings. Being reminded of the distorted yet positive perceptions the average citizen saw him in with gave him a good feeling_. If these regular people hold me in such high regard, maybe I can simply appeal to my popularity with them if the Senators give me a hard time_ he thought.

As he walked through the tent town in the center of the camp's outdoor courtyard, he spotted him. _There he is, the best shot in the West. Well, second best _Drake thought to himself with a wry smile. Craig Boone was a perfect image of the special forces hard case the public often saw the more elite soldiers as. A straight-set jaw, buzz cut hair, sunglasses, and a mouth that smiled so rarely Drake often joked that he must have been born with the same stone faced stoic look on his face. Having heard this joke told to his face numerous times, Craig's head whipped towards him as he heard the chuckle that always followed it. The moon must have turned as blue as a clear afternoon sky that night as Craig Boone actually cracked a hint of a beginning of a small smile as he saw his duster clad friend. "Well, it's a day of rare events, I actually see Drake Caliban, hero of the NCR. " Drake grinned and said "Is that Craig Boone actually talking in a way close to humorous? It IS a day filled with rarities." "What's got you in such a mood Boone; get a chance to snipe some Legionnaires?" Boone's miniscule smile was quickly snuffed as he responded. "I wish. I think Corporal Betsy should tell you" Drake turned to the markswoman standing beside Boone. "Good to see you Drake, it's been some time. Just to let you know, the doc over at the clinic says I'm making good headway about my uh….condition." said the intimidating sniper. Drake had helped the corporal recover from a traumatic experience, being raped by the pyromaniac raider boss Cook-Cook. After helping her get some…closure, he had gone to the head doctor of the Mojave Medical Clinic, Dr. Usanagi. "Glad to hear it Betsy. So what's got Boone displaying an inkling of positive emotion?" he asked. Smiling, Betsy gestured to the balaclava clad member of First Recon, 10 of Spades. Spades possessed a very obvious stutter, and Drake had razzed the unfortunate man. "Spades just got promoted to Jack! Gorobets gave him the UPMOST honor himself." Drake turned to face Spades. "Well, I'm sure you're glad they skipped Queen. Would have made for some very awkward introductions" he said, flashing a toothy smile. He saw the face wrap Spades always wore crinkle with a smile as he responded. "W-w-well I couldn't stay a J-Jack forever. N-never know, maybe I'll make K-King some day." Drake again congratulated him, and then turned to Boone. "Hey, look. We need to talk. Have you ever been into deep NCR territory?" "Of course," replied Boone, "I was trained with the rest of my unit in Shady Sands, before I came to the Mojave. Why?" Drake grimaced and said "Well, after we rally a few more of the old gang, I'm going to need your help…

**Hey, PS, I would like a volunteer editor. I need someone to take my raw writing, and fix it. I don't mean grammar or spelling. I can do that. Basically I need someone to add in those spacing…..things REAL authors use for dialogue. I don't even know the terminology. Thank you.**


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